From the day I was born in early November 1950 until the summer of 1967 I have no recollection of ever consciously wishing that I was dead. Quite to the contrary, life as I knew it was the proverbial bowl of cherries. One reason I was so attached to life on this planet was because the music was shockingly excellent; anytime I turned on the radio back in the mid-60s I was almost certain to hear the latest single from the Beatles, the Stones, the Animals or the Kinks, whose collective popularity reinforced me in the nave belief that the horrid old days of Lesley Gore and the New Christy Minstrels were at an end, that life was constantly getting better, and that everything henceforth was coming up roses both for you and for me. This Panglossian world view was abruptly, irremediably shattered the day Different Drum was released. From the moment I heard Linda Ronstadt, with the daft support of the Stone Poneys, warbling the words: Now, donÕt get me wrong, ItÕs not that IÕm knocking, ItÕs just that I am not in the market for A boy who wants to love only me. and I ainÕt saying youÕre not pretty, All IÕm sayingÕs IÕm not ready For any certain place or thingÉ etc. I really and truly no longer wanted to live. Although for some time I had known about the Black Death and the Bataan Death March and the peerless horrors of the Þrst world war, none of these catastrophes ever shook my faith in mankind quite as much as listening to the lyrics from Different Drum. Plagues, mass murders and the pointless deaths of millions of innocent human beings could be written off as an oversight, a fluke, an unfortunate mistake. But the person who wrote the lyrics to Different Drum and the woman who sang them knew exactly what they were doing. Their crime was vicious, premeditated, cold-blooded. This being the case, I no longer wanted to share planetary airspace with such heartless monsters. Death seemed a far more attractive alternative. Obviously, this moment passed. I survived the Stone Poneys, survived the 60s, survived many other cultural epiphanies that left me at or near deathÕs doorstep. But ever since I Þrst heard the words to Different Drum I have been acutely sensitive to pop cultural war crimes (Captain Jack, Michael BoltonÕs rendition of When A Man Loves A Woman, Kylie MinogueÕs career) that strip life of all meaning and make a vast portion of the population Ñ or, at the very least, me Ñ want to drown themselves in a cesspool or swig a tankard of arsenic. ThatÕs one reason I never watch MTV. But I do watch motion pictures. Lots and lots of motion pictures. Some I love. Some I hate. But only a few have ever made me question my basic assumptions about where society is headed, and whether it is worth tagging along for the ride. To date, I am happy to report, I have not yet seen a movie that has pushed me over the brink into the abyss, but on several occasions I have come close. In the following pages, I would like to discuss 10 movies so bellicosely vile they made me wish I was dead even before I had seen them. Obviously, 10 is an entirely arbitrary number Ñ 250 would probably be more like it Ñ but 10 will serve our purposes here. Like the Mongol invasions of the 13th century or the bloodthirsty, three-decade rule of Josef Stalin, these 10 movies are free-standing cultural atrocities that have irreversibly diminished the quality of life in the western world and on occasion have come within a catÕs whisker of extinguishing civilisation as we know it. Not surprisingly, Barbra Streisand appears in two of them. Here then is my list: Oh, God! It is generally agreed that the 70s were a mistake, and nothing better illustrates this truth than this 1977 tale of a nondescript grocery clerk with very bad hair who suddenly begins receiving visits from God Almighty. God, played by George Burns, an amusing comic who hung around about 40 years too long, wishes to assure the world that He is alive and well, though not especially entertaining. John Denver, a jackass who enjoyed a brief reign as a secular saint in the late 70s until everyone in America came to their senses, is to be His messenger. In fact, this kind of stunt sounds exactly like something God would do: trying to prove His existence by anointing a washed-up folk singer in Friar-Tuck-meets-Abba bangs and granny glasses as His emissary. Reinforcing my belief that God is not so much indifferent as incredibly annoying. Look at it this way: If God really loved us, would He have allowed John Denver to write AnnieÕs Song? The Rose. Bette Midler, who canÕt sing, plays Janis Joplin, who could. Another icon of my youth traduced and violated. Also notable because it is the Þrst Þlm in which an impoverished Manhattan artist has an apartment in a terriÞc neighbourhood that he could not possibly afford to live in. Dead Poets Society. This Þlm advances the implausible theory that rich public school kids would be happier if they read more, and better, poetry. Personally, I have always wished that rich public school kids would play more, and better, Russian roulette. The Þrst in a series of movies Ñ Mrs DoubtÞre, Jack, What Dreams May Come, FathersÕ Day, Toys Ñ proclaiming that adult males would be a lot happier and much more appealing to women if they tried to be more like Robin Williams. Pass me the cyanide container. The Way We Were. It left no clich unuttered, it left no hackneyed plot device unutilised, it left no stereotype unshot. And just as Attila the Hun prepared the way for Genghis Khan, the cloying Barbra Streisand soundtrack laid smooth the path for the cloying Celine Dion career. Thank God I didnÕt have that straight razor on me the day I saw it. Life Is Beautiful. It left no clich unuttered, it left no hackneyed plot device unutilised, it left no stereotype unshot. But unlike The Way We Were, noxious fluff, but fluff all the same, Life Is Beautiful tried to make the Holocaust seem a-like-a-one-a-bigga-joka. If we know anything about the second world war, we know that children did not survive the death camps, especially if they had a jabbering nitwit for a father. Fifty years earlier, in The Great Dictator, Charlie Chaplin made a huge mistake by trying to Þght the Nazis with the feeble weapons of satire. In Life Is Beautiful, Roberto Benigni makes a far bigger mistake by suggesting that if you keep a grin on your face and a smile in your heart, you can get through anything, even Auschwitz. The function of art is to tell the truth. Life Is Beautiful is a cynical lie. Love Story. Uh-oh, rich kids with problems again! And this time, the very worst kind of problem: not being able to marry a poor kid, because sheÕs dying of leukaemia or some other mysterious prep-school malady. As I noted in my book Red Lobster, White Trash And The Blue Lagoon, Ali MacGraw in Love Story is the only character in history who can give Jack Palance in Shane a serious run for his money as the villain I most wanted to see die by the end of the Þlm. Incidentally, I did not see this movie until 27 years after it was released. But it still ruined my life. Mr HollandÕs Opus. Mr QueenanÕs nightmare. A beloved, dedicated high-school music teacher gets booted out on the street after 30 years, but not before every student he ever taught shows up for a surprise world premiere performance of his unpublished First Symphony, which he has secretly been working on his entire life. If this pitiful mishmash of Ludwig Van Beethoven and Ludwig Van Halen is the best this little putz can do, the school should have Þred him 20 years earlier. Or had him teaching gym. St ElmoÕs Fire. This Þlm is the cinematic equivalent of Billy JoelÕs Piano Man, in that the Þrst time I was exposed to it, I knew that it would hang over American society like an ineradicable pestilence for the next half-century. Not only did it launch the careers of some of the most Satanic forces the entertainment industry has ever spawned, but it gave birth to a whole genre of similarly nauseating movies. Just as surely as Easy Rider is the epochal, rite-of-passage god-awful movie that can always be thrown in the face of haughty, know-it-all, we-were-so-cool Baby Boomers, St ElmoÕs Fire is the cultural albatross that Gen X-ers will be carrying around their necks for the rest of their lives. Not kewl. The Breakfast Club. This is the cinematic equivalent of Billy JoelÕs Piano Man, in that the Þrst time I was exposed to it, I knew that it would hang over American society like an ineradicable pestilence for the next half-century. Not only did it launch the careers of some of the most Satanic forces the entertainment industry has ever spawned, but it gave birth to a whole genre of similarly nauseating movies. Just as surely as Easy Rider is the epochal, rite-of-passage god-awful movie that can always be thrown in the face of haughty, know-it-all, we-were-so-cool Baby Boomers, The Breakfast Club is the cultural albatross that Gen X-ers will be carrying around their necks for the rest of their lives. But at least we only had one Easy Rider. A Star Is Born. Kris Kristofferson, who canÕt sing, plays Jim Morrison, who could. Another icon of my youth traduced and violated. The only movie Streisand ever made where her co-star was actually more repellent than her.

In presenting my list, I hope the reader will understand that I have not gone out of my way to be cruel to those involved in the production of these Þlms, nor is there anything capricious or aleatory in my selection process. The individuals who midwifed these hellish progeny did the crime, and for that they should be made to do the time. Purists may object that I left out many Jerry Lewis and Adam Sandler movies that were equally worthy of contumely; to them I can only say that, with the notable exception of Oh God!, asinine comedies have rarely triggered the death wish in me as much as Þlms that beg to be taken seriously. Besides, purists are jerks. One obvious question is whether in presenting this list I am not inadvertently unveiling myself as the boy who repeatedly cried wolf. On at least 10 separate occasions, I have seen Þlms that made me wish I was dead, and yet, as I write these words, I am still very much alive. Those who would like to see me dead may in fact be wondering whether it is even possible to make a Þlm that could drive a person who survived The Way We Were and The Breakfast Club completely over the edge into suicide. Frankly, I have my doubts. But if it is any consolation to those who wish me ill, I am fast approaching my 50th year, the old ticker isnÕt what it used to be, and there is every reason to believe that a couple more barrages of Stepmom, YouÕve Got Mail and The Waterboy just might do the trick. Indeed, as I stagger toward my retirement years, I am becoming increasingly judicious in choosing the Þlms I review. After all, Patrick Swayze and Whoopi Goldberg are still working and who knows what they might have up their sleeves? To be perfectly honest, after all the hideous movies IÕve seen in my lifetime, IÕm happy to still be alive. Happy, and not just a little bit surprised. n